Brontide
by starinhercorner
Summary: The low rumbling of distant thunder. Post-Endgame.


There's this thought scratching at the back of her head that the storm hitting Blüdhaven is water that followed them home from the Arctic. Her eyes dart to tiny dim windows every time lightning flashes, on the lookout for a red and yellow blur against the gray haze. It's helping no one. She needs to stop. The thunder takes almost a minute to reach the warehouse and her ears, and she checks her phone again, floats it over from the counter while wiping flour off her hands. It gives off no rumbling, no blinking light; Artemis's name hangs at the top of the wall of her sent messages, of a screen filled with lime green. "You're welcome to stop by" has turned to "If you're not busy, can I come over?" and dissolved into "Where are you?" in a few hours' time; "I'll head to Palo Alto first. There'll be snickerdoodles…" hovers anxiously in her drafts. She presses her thumb down hard onto the backspace key—plastic crackling in her hand—and sends along a sideways smile instead. The dough has yet to leave the bowl. Baby steps. Deep breaths.

Conner looms at the border of the kitchen space, his arms crossed, his back against air. Apprehension rolls off of him like the thunder, and she strains her thoughts against it. His presence keeps her squeezed into a tight work area and all too aware of herself when she defaults to hands. She floats cups over with her mind just to maintain the distance. It's a heavy responsibility, and she knows it's hers.

Lightning again. Her breath catches. She takes a glob of dough into her hands and works through her sped-up heartbeat, hoping he doesn't hear. The thunder takes care of that, surely, and she sighs with something like relief.

Gar hasn't made a sound all day. She only knows he's upstairs because he hasn't come down. Against all else, she wants to tell him that they lied, they're faking it again, another false death this year despite what he made them all promise—with all her guilt, it's easy to forget she wasn't part of that plan. It's easy to remember how she _made _herself part of it, touched it and turned it to ruin. She spent all night waiting for his tears, for his fists to pound against her shoulders each time she hugged him, and he spent all night simply nodding in recognition that she was there. Assuming that he's sleeping now makes it easier to leave him alone, even though she's only half-sure that she should.

She doesn't realize how adamantly she's been avoiding Conner's eyes until she meets them haphazardly, and her gaze immediately bounces to the window as if the rain is her guarded secret. The scent of cinnamon takes its time to reach her nostrils, but when it does, she can feel it in her brain, something hot and sharp and fizzling behind her eyes. She shakes her head at nothing, then shoots a glance back at the phone, wills it up to her face. No change. The screen shows her reflection as it fades to black, and her heart sinks. Her mind directs the device carefully into the smallest pocket of her jeans so she'll feel it vibrate if—when—if—_when_ it rings. She furrows her brow and smiles, shakes her head in the opposite direction from before, and promises someone—maybe herself, maybe the universe, maybe Artemis— that when Artemis calls thirty minutes from now and tells her she's crazy, she'll laugh along, even agree, and everything will be okay.

Lightning again. She winces. The last ball of dough goes on the sheet, fits evenly and _perfectly_ in the remaining space. Something _good _is happening. She grips the edges of the tray with her bare hands and smiles, soaks in the tiny victory before moving on to the next. Bigger steps now. Held-in breath.

Conner stirs at the edge of her vision, and the next second, he's gone. She blinks at the sound of his body making brief impact with the counter, and he stumbles into her space with eyes wide and jaw tense. The baking sheet wobbles in her grip.

"C-Conner, wha—"

"O-oven. You…" He straightens his stance, clears his throat. "You were…" He gestures behind him with his thumb.

"Oh. Ohhh." She feels the color that drains from her fingers rise to her cheeks. "I… forgot?"

"I can. If you want." He holds out a hand in the barest of motions, the slightest movement of the joints in his arm. It still spurs her defenses.

"No!" she says, nearly thrusting the edge of the sheet backwards into her ribs. "N-no, I can…" The words abandon her quickly. Her mouth clamps shut and twitches, but communicates something, because Conner steps aside. She stands back. It's so simple, pulling down the oven door; she's done this for years—never mind that the concentration is making her eyes beam. She peels her hands from the metal with only mild hesitance and suspends the cookie sheet in midair, then eases it further into the field of heat inch by inch.

The thunder crashes in the sky, comes close enough to shake the ground. The clatter of the pan follows faithfully. Her heart skips a beat, and her eyes go straight to the window.

"M'gann?"

"…It's nothing," she says as something thick and heavy surrounds her heart. She wraps sticky hands around her elbows, boards her chest up like a shelter, holds it in. "It's nothing." The rain softens the would-be silence, reminds her that there's a roof over their heads and walls all around them, and that she needs to smile—that someone needs to. The pan rattles in place against the floor as she tries to lift it, but it slips once, and she leaves it. The sight of it blurs too much for her to concentrate, and her eyes squeeze shut as a reflex.

His warmth hits her in a wave, and she remembers when it didn't have to be _something_. She leans into him effortlessly, hides her face from lightning in his chest. The thunder rolls away.


End file.
